#poly!marauders

You open it silently, in the way that only you seem to know how to do (no matter how James tries to avoid waking everyone when he leaves for his morning runs, that thing always squeaks) and step inside on soft feet. James smothers a grin as Remus' head turns in your direction.

You have a tendency to creep through the house like you're hoping you'll go unnoticed. You rarely do, and James feels sort of bad for thinking it's funny when you're thwarted every time.

"Hiya," says James. "Late night at work?"

"Yeah." You glance up, not necessarily looking surprised at having been caught again. (You may be getting used to it.) A smile flickers like light across your lips as you toe off your shoes. "Hi."

"Oi!" Sirius turns around in his chair to face you. James and Remus both wince. Sirius' tone is nothing but friendly, but oi is not a way to win you over. You tense like you're on trial. "What are you doing tonight?"

"Um, nothing important. Why?"

Sirius' excitement grows. "We're going out in a bit. You should come."

"Oh." Your voice quiets, as though making itself small while you crouch to pick up your shoes. "Thanks, but I'm pretty tired."

"It won't really be a big night out," Remus tries in a gentler tone. "We're only going to a bar nearby. We'll be back by midnight."

"Like Cinderella," adds James, trying to get a smile out of you. It works, sort of.

"I think I'm going to stay in," you say apologetically, "but you all have fun."

"Won't be as much fun without you." Sirius pouts.

You press your lips into a good-humored smile, and flee to your room.

Sirius heaves a sigh.

"Shush," Remus chides him, "she'll hear you."

"She never wants to do anything," Sirius whines.

"Maybe because you keep rushing her."

"It's been weeks!"

"She'll warm up eventually," says James, taking care to keep his voice low. "She's just settling in. And maybe bars aren't her scene."

Sirius wrinkles his nose. "Do we have to start a knitting club for her to hang out with us?"

"It could be a fun new hobby."

"You should talk to her," Remus says.

James looks at him, and finds himself being looked at in return. "Me?"

"Ooh, that's a good idea." Sirius leans forward, glitter flashing animatedly. "Get her to go with us tonight."

"Why me?"

"Because she likes you best."

"Wha—not more than any of us!"

"She's more relaxed with you," says Remus matter-of-factly. "Just give it a try, alright?"

James argues the notion of his preferential treatment for a while longer, but ultimately finds himself at your door, knocking politely. "Can I come in?"

There's no answer. After knocking some more and casting a frightened look back towards the kitchen—to which Sirius responds with an insistent shooing motion—James cracks open the door, half expecting you to already be asleep.

You're not. You're still in your work clothes, laying on your bed with earbuds plugging your ears. You take them out when you see James.

"I tried to knock," he apologizes.

"It's okay." You sit up, blinking at him. You look like you're worried you might be in trouble. "What's up?"

"I'm here to make a case," he admits. "Can I come in?"

Wary, you nod.

James steps inside, shutting the door behind him. You shuffle backwards on your bed, making room, though he isn't sure if he should sit. She's more relaxed with you, Remus had said. James doesn't know if that's true, but you do seem more at ease in your own room, your gaze steady on his. He sits on the bed.

"I don't want to pressure you," he starts out. "You don't have to come if you don't want to, but we would like it if you went out with us. Are you really too tired?"

Your shoulder comes up in a half-shrug. "I don't know…it was a long night."

"Like Remus said, we won't be out long. This place is small—it closes at midnight. Sirius will try to get us to go somewhere else after, but we can tell him no."

That smile is back, quick as a struck match. Its warmth lingers in your eyes. "Can we?"

"It's not easy, but it can be done. Remus will champion us."

You look at your lap. James hopes you're thinking about it rather than thinking about how to tell him no. Your fingers tap on your leg.

"We don't even have to stay until close," he bargains. "Give us an hour, and if you want to leave I'll walk you home."

You look startled. "Why do you want me to go so badly?"

"Because—" There's no keeping the earnestness from his voice. "—we want to hang out with you."

You really shy, then. Shoulders drawing in, lashes kissing at the corners. James wants to wrap you up.

"So," he says to rescue you, "an hour?"

"You don't have to walk me home," you murmur.

"Sorry, I'm afraid that part is non-negotiable. I don't mind, though, if it helps."

Your head gives a little shake. James doesn't know if it's directed at him or yourself. "I'm going to need to change."

A grin splits James' face at the realization that he's convinced you. "Take your time," he says. "Sirius is still working on his makeup anyway, and you've only just gotten home from work. We're not in any big hurry."

"Okay." You finally meet his eyes again as he stands to leave, your look sweet. "Thanks, James."

"Thank you," he replies sincerely.

He's smiling gigantically as he steps out into the hallway, closing your door behind him. It gives him away immediately.

Sirius' eyes pop. "Really?"

"Yeah," James whispers, feeling like you as he creeps quietly back to the kitchen. "She's going to be a minute, but she'll come. For an hour, at least."

Sirius pumps his fist in the air. Remus looks smug as he plates up his dinner.

"Told you it'd work," he hums.

Sirius jumps out of his chair to plant a kiss on James' cheek. "You're a legend!"

At Remus' urgent shushing and James' frightened glance toward your doorway, he covers his mouth with both hands, wincing.

"How was it?" you ask.

"Brilliant!" says James, at the same time as Sirius groans, "Awful."

"It was like being in Willy Wonka." James props his chin on a fist as both boys flop down on the bed by yours and Remus' feet.

Sirius shudders. "Creepy film. Why does chocolate require so many mascots? Between the show last night and walking around all of today, my legs are pulverized."

"Is that why you're back early?" asks Remus.

"Partly." James smiles, reaching up to ruffle Remus' hair. "We also missed you. Massage?" he offers Sirius.

Sirius looks momentarily like he could cry for gratitude, but he neatens his expression into one of cool imperiousness soon enough. "Seems like the least you could do."

James scoots closer gamely. He pushes his thumbs into Sirius' calves, and Sirius sighs, dropping his head to his folded arms.

You try not to stare, but even just the awareness of it, James' strong hands kneading confidently at the flesh, is enough to make heat rush from your face down to your chest. It only gets worse as James makes his way up the backs of Sirius' legs.

You search for something to distract yourself. You've been trying to find a hook that could function as a through-line for your feature; maybe this could be it. The Marauders as not only one of the most popular bands in Britain, but the most closely-knit group of boys you've ever witnessed. Supportive, as devoted to each other as they are to their music, and unafraid of showing it.

"So." Sirius turns his head to peer at you, cheek resting on his forearm. You tuck the idea away for later. "Do you think you'll ever walk again?"

You smile, praying it's not obvious how they've flustered you. "That's the hope. You?"

"Likely not." He heaves a great sigh. "My career is finished. Struck down in my prime."

"We'll be alright without you," James says lightly. Sirius kicks one of his feet, and James retaliates by pressing knuckles into his thigh. Sirius stills with a hiss.

"What about you?" he asks, poking Remus' foot. "How are you feeling? Think you'll ever be able to get up onstage again?"

Remus, already a few bites into his chocolate bar, gives Sirius a dry look. "Oh, because that's all I matter to you, is that it?"

"Obviously. If I'm out of the band, James will need you. Otherwise, the whole show will just be him throwing drumsticks off into the crowd. No one will come to see it."

"They'd still come," James defends himself.

A thought strikes you. You take your tape recorder from the nightstand, setting it to record and putting it where the boys can see it. Remus eyes it, but no one objects.

"Uh oh," James jokes. "She's gearing up."

"I was just wondering," you say, "what do you think you'd be doing if you weren't in the band?"

As always when your tape recorder comes out, Sirius takes the lead. He sits up on his elbows, his grin sharpening as if by instrinct or habit.

"Well, if my family had their way I'd have ended up in banking," he says, "but I think I could've been an actor. This face was just made for the public eye, don't you think?"

"So you think you'd have still ended up in entertainment?"

"Don't I entertain you, gorgeous?" Sirius winks.

"If there weren't films or microphones," teases James, "he'd have found a circus to ringlead."

It's funny, because even sitting here with Sirius now—in normal clothes, bare of the dark slashes of eyeliner he wears onstage, with the sun shining on him and warming the impenetrable black of his hair to dark brown—you can't picture him doing anything else. He's right; whether by nature or by practice, Sirius has mastered stardom. He doesn't have to wait for a spotlight to find him. He emits his own.

"Remus," James goes on, "wanted to be a teacher, though."

You turn to the bassist, feeling your brows lift. "Did you really?"

Remus appears almost shy. "I did, yeah."

"He was always very swotty." Sirius grins, fond around the eyes. "He used to finish his homework and then stick around to help us with ours. Lily, too."

Remus rolls his eyes. "You never needed much help."

"No," James agrees. "It was really more the three of them helping me. I'm useless at maths."

"What did you want to do?" you ask him.

James shrugs. "I don't know. When I was little I wanted to be a firefighter. I thought about being a veterinarian for a while, but then I heard there's some maths involved in that sometimes too…" Sirius reaches back to pat him consolingly. "Maybe a footballer? I guess it's a good thing I'm already doing this, or else I might not be able to decide."

You hum, nodding. "I could see that for you."

"That I would never have decided?"

"Yeah."

James pauses Sirius' massage, his eyes squinting behind his glasses. "That feels like it might be an insult."

You copy Sirius and reach over to give him a consoling pat. "You'll live."

"She means you could've done anything you wanted to," Remus translates helpfully. "You're good at lots of things, Jamie."

"You could've been a masseuse, too," adds Sirius, who appears to have nearly liquefied into the mattress.

"Oh." James puffs up. "Well, thanks. What would you have done?" he asks you.

You blink. "Other than journalism?"

"Yeah."

The answer, honestly, is nothing. You're not like James. You didn't have a myriad of other ideas and viable options. This is the whole plan for you. The only plan.

You're saved from answering when the room's phone rings.

You all startle. You hesitate a moment before remembering that this is your room, and you reach over to the nightstand to answer it.

"Hello?"

"L/n?" Your posture straightens unconsciously at the sound of your editor's voice.

"Yes, hi," you say quickly, then cringe at your lack of professionalism. Sometimes it feels like you get greener by the day. "How can I help you?"

He begins speaking in his usual brusque, clipped way. It still intimidates you, even if you're slowly getting used to it. The boys must catch onto the nature of the call; Sirius sits up, looking unsure, and James whispers to you that they can leave. You wave them off, frowning as you listen to the voice on the other line.

"Yes," you say. "Yeah, I can do that."

You hold the phone to your ear with your shoulder and reach for your pen and notepad.

"Where is it? Okay, thanks….and pre or post-show? Got it. No, that's perfect. I, um…" You hesitate, a bit embarassed to be having this conversation in front of others. "Thank you for the opportunity. I'll—"

You cut yourself off when your editor begins speaking again.

"I understand. It will be, thank you. Alright, goodb—"

You're cut off again by the click of the receiver.

Sirius' brow wrinkles. "That guy wasn't letting you get much out, was he?"

"What's going on?" James asks.

You take a breath. "They want me to interview another band."

His eyes widen. "You're done with us?"

"No. It's…Reckoning is having a show here tonight. They've scheduled me for a pre-show interview because I'm nearby."

"They're asking you to cheat on us?" Sirius gasps in mock outrage.

"You all cheated on me first," you remind him, "when you got interviewed by another reporter."

You don't recall what else came out of that day until the levity has already sapped from Sirius' expression, leaving a dark pinch in its place.

"We should go with you," he says.

"Don't be stupid." You shake your head, looking away. "I do this stuff all the time."

Sirius seems as if he might argue with you, but Remus speaks before he can. "It's good that they're asking you to do more work for them, isn't it?"

"Yeah," you hedge. "Just…my editor sort of implied it's because the feature is taking me too long. I think they're starting to get antsy."

Remus eyes you worriedly.

You try to sound assured. "But it'll be fine. Since I'm here, I can write this other article in the meantime to keep them happy."

Sirius sighs, rolling over and casting his head back dramatically. "So long as we're still your favorites."

"I don't think I'm supposed to pick favorites," you tell him, a smile creeping onto your face.

"What we're supposed to do and what we do are two different things, doll. Anyway, I think you already said we're your favorite band." He casts a look at Remus. "Didn't she?"

"I remember that," Remus agrees.

"Think you called us amazing once too," muses James. He bumps your good ankle with his elbow playfully. "Don't forget that when you're writing your feature, alright?"

"You're the feature," you remind them. "This is just an article."

"Cheers. Goodnight," James replies.

There's the swooshing sound of the bus door opening and closing. You start to sit up, but at the slightest bit of movement from you, James' hand covers your head, stroking lullingly.

"Shh," he whispers.

There's a pause, wherein no one but you seems to breathe. Your indolent mind makes the executive decision to drift in not-quite-sleep for a while longer.

"James," Remus sighs, "we're going to have to wake her."

James makes a soft, mournful sound you think you likely only hear because you're so close to him. How you came to be using his bicep as a pillow, you don't recall.

It's not him that argues, though, but Sirius. "She was so knackered earlier," he says in a low voice. "And that was hours ago."

"She'll sleep better in a bed," Remus says, his tone gentling.

James makes a sound of offense. "You said I was the best pillow you ever had."

Rousing more now, you can practically hear Remus' eyes roll. "A pillow, not a mattress."

"She just looks so…" There's something in Sirius' voice you can't place. It's too close to compassion for your liking, though, which wakes you up enough to make the decision for them.

You bring a hand to your eyes, rubbing.

"Ah." You feel James wince. "Sorry."

When you open your eyes, even Remus is looking at you guiltily.

"That's…okay." You don't quite know what to make of them, peering instead around the near vacant bus. "Are we back?"

"Yeah," Remus confirms. "Lily's checked in and got our room keys already. Do you think you can stand?"

You nod without thinking, but actually standing is a different matter. Still half-asleep, you put weight on your hurt ankle unthinkingly, saved from collapsing back onto the seat by Sirius' quick reflexes as a whimper tears from your throat.

"Careful," he hisses. His grip on your arm turns less bruising only when you steady yourself on your other foot.

"Sorry." You try to blink yourself into better awareness. "It hurts worse than it did before."

"That happens after you rest it," says Remus, watching you cautiously as you take another step. Once you manage it, he turns around, leading the way out of the bus. "I don't mean to sound bleak, but it'll likely be worse tomorrow, too."

"Yay," you monotone. You wince as you step off the bus.

"Do you want me to carry you?" James offers, entirely sincere.

"No, I've got it."

"Okay, well at least let me—" He lifts your arm and steps underneath it like he had earlier. "That's better, right?"

Despite the cool night air, warmth kisses your cheeks as Sirius wordlessly takes your bag from you, freeing you up to use James as your crutch.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "It does, thanks."

You don't want to think about how ill advised this is. You don't want to think about how this could be James' way of getting on your good side, making sure you write nice things about them in your feature. You let him support you until you get in the hotel elevator, and then you step away to lean against the wall.

James is perhaps too tired to take offense. Remus, though, gives you a scrutinizing look, and steps closer to you when the elevator doors open again.

"I can help get you sorted in your room," he offers. "You'll need ice."

You hesitate for a moment, but in that moment Remus has wound an arm around your waist, supporting you while also shepherding you towards your room. Sirius hands off your bag to him before following James in the other direction.

"You're in good hands, doll," he says, then covers his mouth to yawn after James yawns loudly. He sends the drummer a dark look. "Don't you start with that."

"Goodnight." James continues down the hall, yawning and triggering Sirius' yawns in turn, which are interspersed with threats and complaints.

You yawn as well. Remus, somehow immune to this, chuckles as he opens the door to your room.

"Do you want to change while I get a bag of ice?" he asks, setting both you and your bag on the bed.

"Sure, but—you really don't need to," you say. "I can manage."

"I'm sure you can," he replies, and leaves.

You stare at the door. That doesn't sound like he's not coming back. You change quickly in case, not truly surprised when a polite knock sounds a few minutes later.

"Thank you." You try not to shrink as Remus constructs a stack of pillows to elevate your ankle, settling a towel-wrapped bag of ice on top. You're aware of the tackiness of dried tears on your face, and of how pathetic and inept you must seem. Remus finds a spare blanket and fans it out atop you. "You really don't have to do all of this."

"Don't worry about it," he says.

You do worry, though. You worry about how kind they've all been to you, and what it might mean. What might be expected in return.

"Are you being so nice to me so that I'll write nice things about you all in the feature?" you force yourself to ask.

Remus pauses. His brows twitch, a flicker of something, gone in an instant. "Are you only being nice to us so that we'll give you quotes for your feature?"

You recoil. Such as you can in bed, anyway. Your chin tucks closer to your chest, something inside aching sharply. "No," you say, relieved to find that it rings true.

He hums. "Me neither."

Remus moves your bag to the nightstand for you, nudging the telephone closer so you can reach both without much trouble. "Feel free to give us a ring in the morning," he says. "Sirius is in five-thirty-one, and Lily and Mary are in five-forty. You should meet us for breakfast."

"Thanks," you say, "I will."

The Marauders go on, and you tell yourself you've spent enough time dissecting them. You let go. There are certain things you still can't help but notice—the fondness behind Remus' exasperation when Sirius bumps their hips together playfully, how James grins sheepishly at someone backstage when he's handed yet another drumstick—but for the most part, you just experience the music.

It goes by faster than usual. The songs are mostly the same ones you've heard at every show thus far, though the sparkle of those hasn't worn off for you either. All too soon, the boys are ending on Sweet and Easy, the crowd screaming for more even after they've repeated the riff at the end twice.

You're left buzzing, that raw feeling coursing through you, feeling the best you have in days. You figure you have some time before Lily rounds everyone up to go back to wherever you're staying tonight—you think it's still Birmingham one more day, if James' Cadbury World plans are any indication, but Lily said something about switching hotels—so you go outside to smoke with a gangle of fans.

In addition to a bummed cigarette, you get some half decent material from them. The feature isn't likely to include fan quotes, but if the band flakes on you and you need to fluff it up, these will be useable. You manage to sneak in a few questions about the direction The Marauders might go in without letting anything slip about new music, and the fans don't suspect you of knowing anything worth letting slip anyway. They just want to talk about a band they adore, and you're more than pleased to let them.

Even later, you won't know exactly how it began. The street in front of the venue has been crowded since you stepped outside, but suddenly it's crammed with bodies. You drop your cigarette on instinct when somebody pushes past you. Not two seconds later, someone going the other direction stamps it out. Voices rise, a familiar, foreboding thrum charing the air: anger.

You squash down your panic, looking for an exit route. These things happen. Riots are common at rock concerts. Back when you were going to these gigs in a more regular fashion, you would have remembered to find your way out quickly afterwards, before any could break out. You don't know who's fighting who at this one, or what side you might be presumed to be on. You should go before you find out.

The crowd is near impossible to move through. You find the venue doors locked, and your chest tightens. Any other time you'd just go, but you need to get inside to meet up with Mary, Lily, and the boys. You try to make your way around the building—weathering a few stepped-on toes, a wayward elbow, and a powerful shove.

The last one nearly sends you to the pavement. Another stranger grips you around the elbow to haul you back up, you gasping out a thanks while your ankle twinges and the man who shoved you doesn't so much as look back.

You find the side entrance you'd come in with the band, knocking on the door and trying to muster whatever professionalism you'd lost in the cigarette-smoggy mayhem a few feet behind you.

A security guard pokes his head out.

"Hi," you say. "Are The Marauders still inside?"

He huffs a laugh, already going to close the door again. "Nope."

You shove your foot in the way. Force down a wince—you must have tweaked your ankle when you almost fell. "I'm from Spellbound Magazine." You show him your press pass. "I'm with the band."

The security guard looks right past the piece of plastic, unimpressed. "The band's gone. You can catch them at another show, but not here."

A bolt of panic goes through you. You do your best to smother it. Security does this sort of thing all the time. He thinks you're someone who's not supposed to be here, so he's lying to get you to go away. You just have to prove yourself.

The guard looks down at your shoe, still wedged in the door, then at you, and you know you have a short window.

"If you find Mary—or anyone who works with the band, they'll tell you I'm with them. I came in this door a few hours ago, I just stepped outside."

"You can find see band somewhere else," the security guard says. He gives the toe of your shoe a kick—not even a hard one, but your ankle smarts and it does the trick. "Night."

The metal door shuts with a clang.

Deja-vu.

You don't have much time to think of another plan before commotion from the street catches your attention. The shouts are getting louder and angrier, and you know what that means even before the first shrill whistle pierces the air. The police have arrived.

You step closer to the alley wall, hoping to escape notice and hunker down here until someone you know eventually comes out, but it's not long before people are flooding the alley. There are so many of them you don't think they can all have been at the show. One of the fans you interviewed earlier grabs for you.

"Come on!"

"Oh, no, I—" You mean to let them pass, but the police are advancing behind, arresting those at the back of the crowd. You don't know if the same press pass the venue security disregarded a minute ago is going to make much difference to them. "Shit."

You let yourself be tugged down the alley, then propelled by the general mass of people when the one who tugged you loses their grip. You know for sure you messed up your ankle now. It throbs with every step, and it doesn't help matters that you often don't know where the next step will land, finding yourself moving left or right by the will of the crowd. Every time you try to break away, it seems like the police are right there, and so you keep moving.

Eventually, you aren't being chased anymore. Those around you disperse, going home or to whatever bars are still open. You go in the opposite direction of all of them.

It takes you longer than it should to retrace your steps back to the venue. When you knock on the metal side door, there's no answer. Not that you really thought there would be. There isn't a single light on inside or out.

It occurs to you far too late that you should have just found the bus. If you'd gone there earlier, rather than wasting your time arguing pointlessly with security…it's what a smarter journalist would have done. But the bus will be gone now. The Marauders have long since left you behind.

You're too hopeless to laugh, though you recognize the humor in it. After all your worrying about them sneaking off on you, you'd been the one to disappear. You practically gave them no choice.

You sit down on the foul-smelling concrete and try to steady yourself enough to think of what to do next. You can find them again. You might have some explaining to do, and possibly they'll be upset with you for leaving without saying anything, but if you show up at whatever venue The Marauders are playing tomorrow and catch the attention of someone you know you're sure they'll let you explain yourself. That doesn't give you anywhere to stay tonight, obviously. You'll be okay, though; sitting in this alley until morning doesn't sound particularly enjoyable to you, but you can do it. You're as safe here as anywhere, and it'll only be a few hours until the sun rises. You just have to stay awake.

The echo of a passing voice makes its way down to you, and you burrow closer to the wall to escape its notice.

"Hey? Hey!"

Your track record for successfully melting into the shadows of this alley is not a stellar one.

"Y/n!"

You look up in surprise. In the mouth of the alley, a familiar shape is jogging toward you, followed by others.

"Have you been here this whole time?" James sounds more out of breath than a short jog would do. "Where were you hiding?"

You stare up at him, sure you've fallen asleep and are dreaming. "I…"

James drops to a crouch beside you, concern written all over him even in the dark. Sirius and Mary are behind him a moment later, then Lily and Remus. They surround you, seeming perplexed when you don't stand.

"Are you alright?" asks Remus.

You burst into tears.

It's terribly embarassing, and very unprofessional, but you find that once you start crying you can't stop. You don't mean to shock them. James gets past his alarm the fastest, putting an arm around you, and Lily murmurs something that sounds like a placation.

"I'm sorry," you blubber. "I was—I tried to come back, but they wouldn't let me in, and then the cops were here—"

"We heard," says Sirius, his voice nearly as gentle as you've ever heard it. It reminds you of how he spoke to Remus after Remus got shocked by the mic stand, "about the riot. Figured you might've gotten caught up in it. Are you hurt?"

You manage to tell them about your ankle. Remus prods at it a minute—apparently, he's had enough minor injuries to be a de facto expert—and determines it likely sprained. Mary runs to get you a jacket from the bus, apparently still parked nearby after they stayed to look for you. Lily promises to make sure you always have the relevant addresses in case you get separated again, or maybe Mary can get you a press pass that looks more official somehow—but, she says, it'd probably be best if you stay nearby when you can help it in the future.

Through all of this, you're crying. You're waved off each time you try to apologize for the dramatics. James has resigned himself to sitting on the foul-smelling cement beside you so he can rub your shoulder, and Remus keeps a hand clasped loosely around your ankle while Sirius watches you with dark, serious eyes.

"You got it?" he asks when Mary comes back with your coat and you stand wobbily.

"Yeah." Your voice is a wreck. You put your coat on, and James lifts your arm, encouraging you to put it around his shoulders and let him take some weight off your ankle. You wipe your face. "Sorry for—"

"That's enough," says Remus, managing to sound more kind than stern.

You murmur anyway, "Thanks for waiting for me."

Not anymore, you tell yourself sternly on your way down to the bus. You’re here to do a job. You’re here for yourself. There’s a wall between you and the band by the very nature of your role here, and your role is to make that wall appear transparent, not evaporate it. You won’t let yourself get so close again. 

Closeness has only given you less to write about. 

You return Lily’s polite nod as you step onboard the bus. Sirius is giving you some kind of look, but you pretend not to notice it poking at your periphery. You ignore too James’ patting of the extra space on his bench, passing the boys by to sit instead in an empty seat a few rows behind them. Close enough to overhear; not close enough to engage. As you should have been this whole while.

“Have a lie in this morning?” Remus asks you anyway.

“Yeah,” you reply. 

James turns fully around to speak to you, folding his arms atop of his seat. “I hope you’ve rested up,” he says. “Tomorrow, we’re going to Cadbury World.” 

“Oh.” It takes a second, but you find the right smile. Pleasant and distantly apologetic. “You all have fun, but I think I’m going to stay back. I have to edit this article for Tuesday.” 

James looks put out. You pull out your notepad before you can linger on it. 

“What’s the article about?” asks Remus. It may only be your own new wariness, but you think you detect a hint of vigilance in his tone.

You glance at Sirius on instinct to see if he’s eyeing you with the same distrust. His dark-rimmed stare is heavy, but it’s not…it’s not what you expect. There’s no accusation there. Sirius seems watchful, but not like he’s anticipating something in particular. Like he’s waiting to see what you do next.

You wonder if he thinks you’re angry with him. You’re not. You don’t blame him for thinking you’d sell James out for a story; Sirius is used to dealing with real journalists. He’s learnt to be calculating, to put himself as a shield between people like you and anything—or anyone—he wants to protect. To anticipate the worst you could do so he knows when to be ready. If you were half the journalist Spellbound thinks you are, you would have done it.

You just aren’t sure if you are that journalist. You aren’t sure if you want to be. 

“It’s something I was working on before I got here,” you say to mollify Remus. 

“Are you feeling alright?” asks Sirius. 

You feel your brows draw in tight, forgetting for a moment to control your expression. “I feel fine, why?” 

He shrugs. “You seem rather tired all of a sudden.” 

You put your pleasant smile back on. Sirius frowns. “I guess all this staying up from dusk to dawn is finally getting to me.” 

“Ah, yeah.” James sets his chin on his forearms, his eyes big with sympathy. “I crashed earlier in the tour, too. I think it’s a sort of hurdle you have to get over. Sorry.” 

“We can tuck you in with Remus tonight,” says Sirius lightly. A pink blush blooms over Remus’ cheeks. “He’s got all sorts of methods for getting a good sleep. We’ll have you fully nocturnal in no time, babe.” 

You direct your stare toward your notepad, trying to focus enough to make sense of the first sentence of the article you’re meant to be editing. “I’m not sure that will work out very well for when I eventually have to be awake during the day again.” 

“Why would you ever do that?” Sirius jokes. 

You’re tempted to look up and raise an eyebrow at him; you don’t. “Once I have what I need for the feature, I’m guessing Spellbound will want me working normal business hours.” 

There’s a pause. 

“Well,” says Sirius, “I don’t know why you’d ever work for them, in that case. They sound unhinged.” 

You try not to feel anything about the obviousness of James’ upset when he asks, “Are you nearly done with the feature already?” 

It’s almost laughable. As if they’ve given you near enough information to write the feature; you hardly have enough for a few paragraphs. But, it is like James to be optimistic. “Not quite.” 

Sirius tsks. “Guess we’re not going to be rid of you very soon, then.” 

You keep your expression neutral as you look up at him. “I’ll do my best to work efficiently.” 

Dark brows descend over stormcloud eyes. “Sure you’re not feeling ill?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You should come to Cadbury World with us,” says James, looking worried now, too. “You seem like you could maybe use a break.” 

The useless mush of your heart softens instinctively at the earnestness in his voice. “Thanks,” you say, “but I think I ought to stay on task. We all want me to finish up and get out of your hair, right?” 

Remus makes a soft sound. “No one’s said that.” 

“Maybe we can do an interview after the show?” you go on. “If you’re ready, I can ask some more questions about the album. I know it’s not completely done yet, but the point of me being here is to get accounts of the process.” 

“I thought we agreed you’d be taking us to dinner first,” Sirius hums, in that teasing way of his. 

You don’t rise to the bait. “If you’d like to have the interview at a restaurant, that can be arranged.” You have no clue how you’ll finance it, but that can be a problem for later (and possibly for Spellbound). 

It’s not just Sirius who frowns at you now; all three of the boys look at you like you’ve boarded the bus with serpents for hair. 

“O…kay,” says Sirius. “We’ll see.” 

"Dove -" Remus starts, but you're already ushering him into your apartment, leaving him to close the door behind himself as you disappear back into your room.

"Love, wait -" he tries again as he follows you, and his eyes catch sight of your unmade bed, the sheets thrown back like you'd stumbled out of it upon hearing his knocks on the door. 

He thinks, as you scrub a hand down your face, that you likely did.

"Ok," he says firmly as you start digging through your closet, grabbing you gently by the wrists. "Come here, please."

"I really don't want to be late," you insist, your hands firmly bunched on the clothes that you're holding. "Please, I just need ten minutes - I'm sorry."

"I don't think you need to apologize," he says gently, and when that does nothing, he shakes your wrists a bit in his hands. "Just come here for a minute."

You let his actions loosen your grip on the clothes, dropping them in a heap on the floor and stepping over them as he tugs you gently towards the bed.

"Remus -" you start as he sits down, tugging you down with him and keeping you pressed against his side. 

"You know the boys won't be on their way yet," he says kindly. "Sirius takes more time to get ready than the rest of us put together - James is probably still waiting for him. We've got some time, my love."

"But we're supposed to go out," you remind him. "I didn't forget."

Your assurance, you think, might be a bit misplaced, because Remus's brows come together in a worried sort of look as he smoothes a hand through your hair.

"I know you didn't, lovely, it's ok," he murmurs. 

"It's not," you insist. "I didn't -"

"Did you fall asleep?" he asks gently, and the look you give him is so guilty that he pulls you closer, one big hand coming down to pull both of your legs up over his lap.

"I'm so sorry," you say quietly. "I really didn't mean to sleep that long, but I didn't hear my alarm, and I - honestly, I shouldn't have laid down at all."

Remus listens quietly, his hand coming up to your cheek, his thumb smoothing across the dark circles under your eyes with a gentleness that makes you feel a bit queasy. 

"I'm going to call Sirius," he murmurs, and the way he pulls away from you has something squeezing your lungs tight. 

"You don't want to go out anymore?" you ask quietly, and something in your voice must clue him in, because Remus ducks back down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips. 

"I think, maybe," he says gently, "we should have a night in, yea?" 

"I don't want to cancel our plans because of me," you insist, but he just presses another quick kiss to your cheek before straightening up. 

"We're not cancelling anything," he says kindly. "Just altering a bit. I'm going to go call quick before Sirius goes through the effort of putting on those jeans that he can't sit down in. James should be there to pick him up by now, too."

"Remus -" you say tiredly, and he smooths his hand over the back of your head gently. 

"Go settle in on the couch, ok?" he adds before disappearing, and you hear the telltale sounds of the phone in your kitchen as he calls the other two.

You wonder, sort of achingly, if he's mad at you. Remus is angry more often than he lets on - but very rarely at the three of you, and you like to think that he'd tell you if he was.

But still, you often think that his patience with you must come to an end someday, and maybe this is finally it. Maybe this -

"That is not the couch, my love." His voice in your doorway has you straightening, but he looks at you with only a mix of fondness and worry. "The boys are on their way over in a minute, but James wants to check in with you. He's still on the phone."

You get up wordlessly, and the lingering brush of Remus's hand against your waist, you think, is supposed to be a comfort. 

Sure enough, the phone is still off the hook and laying on the kitchen counter, and you can hear the distant, muffled sounds of James and Sirius sniping at each other on the other side of the call.

"Jamie?" you say as you pick up the phone and press it to your ear, and he changes direction quickly.

"Hi lovie," he says kindly. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, I'm fine, really," you sigh, twisting the phone cord between your fingers. "I'm so sorry about tonight."

"I'm not," James says easily, and you crane your head around to try to look into the living room where you can hear Remus readjusting and arranging things. "I quite fancy a night in with you all. Should we pick up dinner on the way?"

"No," you insist. "Just get over here. We can order in later."

Sirius shouts some sort of goodbye into the phone, jumbling up with James's see you soon until you're rolling your eyes fondly and hanging up the phone. 

"Should I help you in there?" you call out as you make your way into the living room, rubbing a hand over the back of your neck to alleviate some of the tension.

"With what?" Remus asks mildly.

"With whatever you're doing," you respond pointedly as you watch him fluff a couple pillows, a blanket from your bed folded neatly on the couch. 

"No," he says kindly, dropping the pillow and holding his hand out for you. "It's all done."

"I didn't mean for you all to wait on me like this," you sigh as you take his hand, letting him usher you down onto the couch. 

"You're all dressed up," you continue on a guilty sort of murmur. "And now it's just to sit on my couch with me." 

"I'm hardly dressed up," he says kindly. "And, anyway, I'm going to change. Do you still have those sweatpants I left here?"

"Yea, of course," you nod, eyes narrowing slightly at the way he dodges your guilt. "In my room."

"Alright," he presses a quick kiss to the crown of your head. "Find something good on the TV to watch, dove, I'll be quick."

He's not that quick, you think, as James and Sirius pile into your entry way just as Remus is coming back out of the bedroom. 

Either that, or the other two had sped to get here. You're not sure which is worse. 

"Hello, lovely," Sirius says, grappling you into a tight hug as soon as he sees you, pressing his cold nose to your cheek. "You don't look quite as dire as I thought."

"Did you tell them I look bad?" You ask Remus over Sirius's shoulder, and he tugs down the hoodie that he's borrowed from your closet until it meets the waistline of his low slung sweatpants.

"You don't look bad, you look as perfect as ever," he insists. "Just a bit wrung out, that's all."

"Great," you murmur sarcastically, and Sirius pinches your side for it.

"You're terrible at sharing, Pads," James insists as he tries to worm his way in. "Go put the bags away."

"I told you not to buy anything," you sigh long-sufferingly as Sirius trades you for the grocery bags, James's arms quick to lock you in.

"And I didn't listen," he says, his face smushes against your neck as he leans down into you. "Honestly, my love, I'm not sure why that's so surprising."

"I really didn't -" James chases you just a bit as you pull away from him. "I didn't mean to derail our night like this. Honestly, I'm so sorry."

"I don't think you have anything to be sorry for, dove," Remus says gently. "Other than overworking yourself so much."

"Will you all get in here so we can talk about this without shouting?" Sirius calls from the living room, a grocery bag rustling as he speaks.

"I think only one of us is doing the shouting," James calls back as he steers you through your own apartment. You shoot Remus a look over your shoulder as realization buries itself into your gut.

He didn't want to talk to you because he wanted them all to talk to you. It's a family meeting, you think weakly as James sits you down on the couch.

You wonder how much you've upset them all, as he sits down on the coffee table in front of you, Sirius making a home right next to you on the couch and Remus settling in the armchair on your other side.

You wonder how much you've hurt them - you think of how hurt you'd be if one of them forgot a date, and you suddenly feel a bit nauseous about it all.

"You really don't look well, babe," Sirius murmurs, knuckles brushing across your cheek. 

"I'm -" you falter. "I really am sorry. I'd never do anything like that on purpose, you know? It was a mistake - a stupid mistake and it shouldn't have happened and -"

"Have a biscuit," James interrupts you, and you look between the biscuit in his hand and the open grocery bag at his side. 

"Why are you giving this to me?" you ask wearily as you take it from him.

"Because you're being terribly hard on yourself," he explains, nudging your arm up by the elbow when you hold the biscuit limply. "And I'm really not sure why."

"I missed our date," you supply hollowly.

"No, you didn't," Remus insists. "We changed our date plans for the evening. That's different."

"Because of me," you counter.

"You're not the only one who likes a quiet night in, you know," Sirius supplies, but you bristle just a bit.

"I don't need a quiet night in - I'm fine," you say pointedly. 

"I know you are, love," Remus says gently. "You just also might be extending yourself a bit much."

"I'm not."

"If you're accidentally falling asleep in the middle of the day and missing plans, that's not -"

"I'm fine -"

"Baby," James says imploringly, and you snap your mouth shut. 

"Baby," he murmurs again, his hands on your thighs as he softens you with the pet name, something in you cracking. "It's ok. You're not - everything's ok. It's just that if you're tired - if any of us were tired, we'd all probably agree that it'd be a better idea to spend the night in. And it'd still be just as much fun as going out."

Sirius makes an alarmed little sound as you duck your head down to hide your face and a traitorous tear drips down your nose onto the back of James's hand.

"I really don't want -" you start haltingly, "any of you to think I'm a bad person."

"Why would any of us think that?" Sirius asks, the question a disbelieving exhale.

"I stood you up - basically," you say, letting James tilt your head back up to look at him, both of his hands coming up to cup your cheeks and wipe away your tears as they fall.

"You really didn't," Remus said firmly.

"I almost did," you correct yourself with a sniff. 

"You made a mistake," Sirius says quietly, and there's something sort of uneasy in his expression now, a looming sort of knowing that makes him feel a bit unsteady. "None of us are going to hold that against you."

"I don't want any of you to think I'm - I don't know. I'm not a bad person," you say earnestly, but it only serves to make James coo and swipe his thumbs over your cheeks again.

"Of course you're not," he says, astonishment colouring his tone. "My love, of course you're not."

"Why would you be?" Remus murmurs. "For a thing like this?"

"I don't want any of you to think…"" you begin carefully. "That I'm - that I'm lying. That I'm only pretending to be… I don't know. Honest or kind or -"

Sirius says your name, then - firm in a way that he is so rarely, his voice sober and even. "You don't…" he says slowly, watching you carefully. "You don't have to convince us that you're a good person. Ever."

"I know," you murmur, ducking your head down and knocking James's hands off your face with the motion.

"Do you?" Remus asks gently, moving from the armchair to perch on the armrest next to you, instead.

"I… I do," you say again - admittedly weaker this time. "I know."

"You know," Sirius says gently, shifting in his seat. His hands clench and unclench on his lap as he looks down, distinctly uncomfortable with what he's cracking open for you. "Back when… before we got together. When we were all just friends, I thought - I had a hard time believing it all."

Remus reaches over behind you to brush his hand over the back of Sirius's head, and you shift your knee to bump against his kindly.

"Sometimes," Sirius begins carefully. "There are people in our lives who make us think we're bad people. It doesn't mean it's true."

"I have this weird fear," you say quietly, and it all just sort of starts tumbling out of you now that Sirius has started it. "That you'll - I don't know. Like maybe I'm tricking you all somehow. Like maybe one day you'll realize that I'm actually awful, and I've just gotten very good at pretending to be good."

"What would you get out of that?" James asks gently, resting his hand on your knee and looking at you kindly.

"What?"

"What good would you get out of that? Really?" he presses. You shrug.

"I don't - I don't know."

"It seems to be making you feel terrible," he points out.

"I don't - I didn't mean -" you begin.

"It just doesn't make sense," Remus agrees. "There's no reason for a thing like that to be true, dove."

"Baby," Sirius murmurs, a gentle hand on your cheek coaxing you to look at him. "It's not true. It's never been true. There's no punishment for making a mistake here."

"Is it ok if I don't believe you fully right now?" you ask quietly, and the smile that he sends you is so soft, you worry that you might cry.

"Of course it is," Sirius insists. "As long as it's ok for us to remind you."

"Of course it is," you agree readily, and Remus squeezes a hand on the back of your neck gently. James twists around to riffle through the bags on the coffee table while his other hand smooths up and down your thigh.

"Have another biscuit," he says. "We'll order in some food."

"You're endorsing dessert before dinner," you counter, but you take the biscuit regardless.

You feel your eyebrows come back down. “What?” 

Sirius shakes his head and steps into your room, shutting the door behind him. You’ll think later about how you let him, unhesitatingly, because even after the morning you’ve had, you trust these boys. Always the fool. 

“I could see you thinking about it on the bus,” he says. “Don’t you fucking dare. This is not part of your feature story.” 

Inexplicably, the realization of what you’ve missed only makes exhaustion pull at your limbs more heavily. You’ve forgotten what you’re really here for yet again. Whatever Sirius saw on your face as you listened to James was likely surprise, but it wasn’t you doing your job; it wasn’t the ambition your new (if they keep you) bosses are expecting of you. 

“This is celebrity news,” you say, nearly forgetting, now, that Sirius is in the room with you. 

It is, though. It’s huge. Caius Avery’s wife, taking advantage of a young musician too green to do anything about it. It’s the exact kind of sickening readers will clamor for. 

“I thought you wouldn’t write anything personal,” Sirius snipes. 

The implied accusation nettles; it’s essentially what you promised when Remus was ill. You meet Sirius’ eyes, guilt like a vine creeping around your ribs and up your throat. “Sirius, this isn’t the same. This is—it’s Lorena Avery.” 

“Exactly.” 

“What if I left James out of it? He could be anonymous.” 

Sirius actually scoffs. A crude, mean thing, like he could spit if he put just a bit more effort in. “Right, who would ever figure that out? No one would be curious enough to want to know more, or to match up the timeline, or call you a liar unless you give over a source.” His gaze is as unforgiving as if you’ve already done it. “Caius Avery would sink us.”  

An unexpected swell of indignance prickles under your skin. “Is that what this is about?” 

Sirius blinks, his ferocity wavering a moment. 

“Do you even care about James?” 

It returns just as quickly. “Fuck you.” 

“You’re just worried about the tour. You never stop to wonder if he might want to hold Lorena accountable, or to talk about it—” 

“Oh, because that’s your aim, is it? To make James feel better?” 

“This is my job!”  

“He’s my friend!” 

It stills you. For a long moment, you look at each other, you in your pajamas and Sirius still in the stage makeup he put on for the interview, all dark, impenetrable black. Sometimes, you think you see right through him, but now you have no clue what he’s thinking. Sirius isn’t what’s important now, though. 

It’s James. James is your friend, too. 

“Leave him out of it,” Sirius says again, firmly. 

“Okay,” you reply. Your earlier exhaustion returns full force. “I will.” 

“I mean it.” 

“Okay.” Irritation needles at your tone as you brush past him towards your bed. “Can we nap before we have to get back on the bus, or do you want to stay and argue some more?” 

Sirius raises an eyebrow—and you don’t know how he does this, make it seem like you’re the one impinging upon him. “I think that’ll do for now,” he says, and lets himself out. 

You push out a breath, fighting down a scream. What good are you to Spellbound, if you keep unearthing stories and then not writing them? If the magazine found out you knew about this and helped to suppress it, they’d do worse than fire you. They’d blacklist you. You’d never work again. 

Just like James if the story gets out. 

You collapse into bed, and don’t sleep a wink. 

꩜ ‧.°. 𖦹.°.‧ ꩜‧.°.𖦹 .°.‧

You’re packed and ready when the next knock on your door comes. You expect it to be Lily telling you it’s time to go, or maybe Sirius itching to guilt you some more, but you’re surprised to find Mary on the other side. 

“Hi.” She offers a smile. It’s tinged an unhappy hue. “Can I come in for a sec?” 

“Sure,” you say, stepping aside. 

“Thanks.” Mary doesn’t go far, closing the door behind herself and leaning against the wall of the entryway. “How are you doing?” 

You smile. “I’m all good. Sorry for the drama earlier.” 

Her brows bend inwards. “Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t drama, and even if it was, it would have been justified. That guy was pushing it and he knew it.” 

You don’t know how to respond—to thank her or to apologize again feel equally good options, though you get the sense Mary won’t approve of either—but Mary, blessedly, moves on. 

“I know you’ve already had a shit day,” she says, “but I heard about what happened on the bus earlier.” Her eyes search yours, deep brown and perceptive. “What James told you.” 

A hint of the nausea from earlier squeezes the base of your throat. “What about it?” 

“I need to know if you have any recording of it.” 

You blink. “I—no, I don’t. I didn’t even have my things with me earlier.” 

It’s a relief—and a mercy, you think—that Mary takes you at your word. “Great,” she says, “thanks. So, just so we’re clear, that was all completely off the record.” 

“I mean, literally.” You shrug. “I didn’t record it.” 

“Right, and you won’t publish it in paraphrase either. Right?” 

Mary’s tone is friendly, but there’s something beneath it that tells you she’d stop being your friend for the moment if you opposed her on this. Like Sirius, then. It had to have been him who warned her, who asked her to come in her role as the band’s publicist to negotiate with you. 

It stings. Even after how you’d spoken to each other earlier, you didn’t think Sirius would have so little confidence in you.

“Right,” you repeat, feeling bound. Not conniving enough to work, not honest enough to have true friends. You’re a mess of unkeepable promises and competing desires. 

“Great.” Now Mary looks relieved, too. She offers you another rueful smile. “I just have to be sure. It’s part of my job, you know?”